Lasagna and Writers Block
by WickedRocksSoMuch
Summary: John can't update, Sherlock can't cook and fluffy stories are great so here you go.


Author's Note: Inspired by a post on Tumblr that I now cannot find so, um, enjoy…I think.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of-_

No, that wouldn't do at all. John Watson stared despondently at the computer screen, desperately trying to come up with the perfect intro to his latest blog update. So far the options were looking more clichéd than inspirational. He began again.  
_  
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit-_

No, that was taken.

Call me Ishmael-

That was taken too, and not at all related to the matter on his mind.

John Watson stared despondently at his laptop-

Drat.

In an attempt to clear his mind, John banged his head against the keyboard. Repeatedly. When that didn't work he closed the laptop and went in search of a cup of tea to ease his nerves.

**"John?"  
"Yes, Sherlock?"  
"You know that I'm married to my work."**

It hadn't been a question.

John brought the freshly brewed cup of tea over to his laptop (he'd disregarded the human head in the fridge in order to maintain his sanity). He set it down and cracked open once more the computer. He spent a further ten minutes staring at the screen before deciding that it simply wasn't going to happen. He felt his time could be spent on much more productive things. He opened up a new game of solitaire.  
**  
"Of course, Sherlock, you've told me enough,"**

**"Yes, but John-"**

John's tea had long grown cold and he was no closer to updating his blog. The empty box taunted him with its austere lack of words. He sighed and logged out, realizing the futility of the whole exercise. He barely understood what was going on himself.

**"You're part of my work now, John."**

John finally let himself remember the events of the previous day. They'd been leaving a crime scene. Sherlock had solved the case in the car ride there. As they walked away, Sherlock had spoken those words. It had taken a minute for his meaning to sink in. Having been dangerously close to crushing on his flat mate for several weeks, the proposal was a welcome addition. John had only one problem.

He had no recollection of what answer he'd given Sherlock. He'd blacked out and come to several hours ago, lying on the couch. Sherlock hadn't made himself known and John was afraid he might've done something to offend him. With that thought in his mind he fell asleep on the keyboard of his laptop.

John woke to the smell of burning lasagna. Either Sherlock was conducting an experiment on the flammability of pasta, or he was trying to actually cook dinner. John was unsure as to which he dreaded more. Rising from the couch, he dashed into the kitchen to find that the world's only consulting detective was, in fact, cooking something that may once have been pasta but now was much closer to a lump of whale blubber. John hurriedly (but gently) shoved Sherlock out of the way and tried to salvage what remained of the botched attempt at dinner. Sherlock watched him intently.

Finding the lasagna (for Sherlock had assured him that that had indeed been the origin of the blob currently residing on the counter) to be beyond help, John settled on a sensible dinner of peanut butter and jam sandwiches. He went to the fridge looking for drinks. All the while Sherlock sat at the table and studied his flat mate. John found, to his blatant surprise that there was milk in the fridge. He hasn't gotten any, which meant that Sherlock must've-

John turned quickly around and was met with the full force of Sherlock Holmes' gaze. He blushed a hitherto unknown shade of red and returned to the incredibly delicate and overly complicated process of sandwich making, or at least, John made it appear to be so complex. It should be here noted that John had not intentionally fallen for his friend. Somewhere between the serial murders and the absurd personality he had lost sight of his (questionable) heterosexuality. He had fallen in love with the man who possessed one of the greatest minds yet seen by this world.

John had been horrified.

John set down two plates and glasses on the table and cast about desperately for something that would not involve having to look at Sherlock. As he searched through the cupboards for some made up utensil ("It's a, um, glockenspiel, Sherlock, you use it to, uh, eat sandwiches,") he failed to notice that Sherlock had risen from the table.

"A glockenspiel is a musical instrument, John," he said.

"I was hoping you wouldn't know that," mumbled John.

"You didn't answer my question yesterday," he continued, as if John hadn't spoken. Sherlock leaned against the counter next to him and stared.

"What did I do then?" John asked.

"Fainted."

There was a moment of silence. Then John began to laugh. It was as if all the tension in his body had dissipated. He sagged against the counter. Tears streamed down his face in his mirth. Sherlock was confused by his response, but he smiled anyways, not getting the joke. John looked up at Sherlock through the tears of laughter.

"Yes,"

"Hmm?"

"Yes, I'll marry you, you idiot."

Author's Note: I tried to write seriously. An attempt was made.


End file.
